


The truths that make the whole

by onedaymytardiswillcome



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onedaymytardiswillcome/pseuds/onedaymytardiswillcome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cold January morning in Fitton. Sorry, that's rubbish but I don't want to give anything away. No ships but it's sad with some death/ mourning. Short and been in my head for AGES! Should be read after Knapp-Shappey Residence but it's not crucial!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The truths that make the whole

It felt too cold and too early as the man stomped his way across the frozen ground of the cemetery. It was going to be a bright January morning but the sun was just peaking over the horizon now, casting long shadows and offering no warmth at all. Breath came out in frozen puffs and no birds were singing yet. Cursing quietly at the gate that forced him to take his already cold hands out of his pocket, Captain Martin Crieff entered the small church graveyard. Satisfied that the gate had shut properly behind him, Martin slowly worked his way through the lines of gravestones to his destination. He was already in his uniform, ready to fly that day, but, as he neared one grey slab, he slowly reached up to remove his hat. His ears almost instantly turned red from the cold.

He held the hat loosely in front of him and looked nervously at his feet. NO flowers yet. Of course not, no one else from the family would be here for hours. The only reason he was here in the freezing dawn was a 8 o'clock flight, taking a furiously rich man and his new (much younger) wife, to Mexico.

Deciding it was finally too cold, he placed his hat down in front of the stone and thrust his hands deep back into his pockets. But then, glancing down, he hurriedly kicked his hat off the gravestone space; that sight was just too painfully ironic.

'Well,' he muttered under his breath, his current location specifying the need to whisper. 'Um, it's Martin I...' But as always when he came to his Dad's grave he had no idea what to say. Martin wanted to tell his dad all about flying, and how great it is. About Arthur, Carolyn, Douglas and their constant ineptitude. About how Carolyn even paid him a bit now; just enough to cover his rent and then van, but it was something.

But he never quite could. Anyway, the way he thought of heaven, Dad saw all that fine without the need to be told about it. Martin shuffled his feet thinking of what to say. He cleared his throat, 'ahem, Mum's OK. I mean...well she is. And Kate. And even Simon, not that I see much of him. Guess we are all fine. I'm fine by the way.' He coughed nervously again. It didn't bypass him that he was no less nervous around his dad now that he was dead than when he had been when alive.

'Sorry I haven't visited in a while. Just been really busy.' The cold was starting to seep though Martin's coat now and he had to shuffle his feet to stop them going dead with the cold. 'Anyway, just thought I should say happy birthday. Oh! I nearly forgot,' Martin felt around in his pocket until he located the object. 'I got you this. It's not much, but, well I found it on a stall last time we were in Ireland and...yeah...'

Martin fished the model car out of his pocket and crouched to place it at the foot of the stone. 'It's a model MG Midget...Orange. Like the one we used to have.' Martin stayed crouched remembering. Memories of being 6, 7, 8 riding around Wokingham in the tiny car. Just him and Dad. The roar of the engine and the, to Martin, terrifying speed. Martin being allowed to drive, sat on his Dad's lap, around the circular drive way at home. Just him and Dad. He sighed quietly and brushed a tear from his eyes. 'Happy Birthday,' he whispered again, touched the headstone once gently, and then went to stand again. But, as he did, he caught sight of a very familiar figure, its back to him, on the other side of the graveyard.

He hurriedly crouched back down, banging his knee on the head stone as he did so. Biting his lip to keep from crying out in pain, Martin peered over the stone at the back of First Officer Douglas Richardson.

He brow furrowed in confusion. What was Douglas doing here? Martin rolled his eyes at himself, well that was obvious. But Martin wondered who Douglas had come to see. Knowing that it was a situation best avoided, Martin stayed in his crouched, hidden position as he watched Douglas gently place a bunch of flowers at the grave, brush angrily at his eyes, sniff and then turn stiffly and walk away. Martin heard the start of Douglas' car engine and only then was he brave enough to appear from his hiding place.

An internal battle then took place. Groaning when he realised his more curious side was going to win, Martin turned and walked to where the First Officer had been stood until a moment before.

As he neared, Martin caught sight of a delicate headstone. It was small and undecorated apart from text. It looked weathered, but well kept, the grass around it trimmed and, of course, the new bunch of lilies that Douglas had just placed there. Martin could tell it was an old stone, or at least older than his Dad's, and so was caught completely off guard by the text written across it in delicate but clear text. Text that defied you not to notice it, text that made Martin say in an undertone, a tear building in the corner of his eye again, 'oh Douglas...'

There, on the small white gravestone the clear words:

'Amelia Lucy Richardson

July 1983- January 1984

Beloved Daughter'


End file.
